Of the Adventure That Could Not be Blogged
by theDubliner
Summary: The morning after the encounter with Moriarty, John awakes to find Sherlock struggling with a mystery much deeper than any murder.
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Note:** I decided I simply had to write a Sherlock fic considering I spent the last too-many hours discovering and loving and rewatching the episodes like four times. That being said, it is my first, so cut me some slack please? This fic does feature a potential accepted relationship between John and Sherlock, so for those of you who are close-minded and boring, keep your distance. Besides that ... enjoy, please do enjoy, and give me feedback if you think the story merits it._

* * *

><p>It was early. Yes, very early. John knew this because through the curtains there was only the faintest hint of a sunrise. The doctor's deductions continued. By looking at his watch and reading the glowing red numbers, John deduced that it was 5:54 a.m. And yet … yes, there it was again. A noise coming from the living room. A sort of thunking noise. John sat to listen for a moment. It would happen, and then happen again, in between irregular pauses. Cursing the fates that would have him up at such a God-awful hour the morning after such a traumatic event, John pulled on a still-damp bathrobe and headed towards the source of annoyance.<p>

Ah … of course. Sherlock Holmes. The source of _all_ his annoyance. And hardship. And pain. And death-defying adventures.

"Sherlock, what in _God's_ name are you doing up at this hour? And what was that bloody – Oh, _my_ computer? _My_ computer, is it? What could you possibly need to –"

"John _please_ do be quiet. I'm concentrating." Sherlock was sitting wrapped in a sheet, John's laptop open on his bare knees, fingers moving rapidly just above the keyboard – not actually typing anything.

John's head fell to one side and his lips pursed angrily, waiting for an explanation.

Sherlock closed his eyes and let his fingers rest a moment. His head fell back against the sofa, and John watched as he serenely reached to the coffee table – eyes still closed – grasped a dart and flung it against the wall near the kitchen. Well, that explained the noise anyhow …

"Oh, _c'mon_ Sherlock, what's going on?"

But Sherlock did not move, did not open his eyes. He sat just as he had been, his hand still poised in the position in which the dart had left it. He took deep breaths and ignored John completely.

"Sherlock?"

"Sherlock?"

"For pity's sake, John! Shouldn't you be asleep?" Sherlock awoke in a fit of irritation.

"Have you _been_ to sleep yet, Sherlock?"

And then John was worried. Worried because he saw the bags under Sherlock's eyes and the wrinkles around his mouth from frowning. He saw the unruly way in which Sherlock's hair was lying, as if he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly for hours. Sherlock might have applauded John on his observations, but John could have told him there was nothing scientific about it – one simply knew when someone they cared about was in emotional distress. And this _was _emotional distress. John knew it must be so, because he had seen Sherlock under mental stress and inflicted upon by physical pain – and this was neither of those. John had never seen Sherlock look this way before. Had never seen him look baffled. Puzzles were exciting to Sherlock, never confusing or defeating or wearying.

"Sherlock, what is it?" he said as he sat beside his flat mate.

Sherlock pulled the screen of the laptop closer to him and turned his body at an angle so that he was facing John head-on. "Nothing."

Then came the pursing of the lips again. "Fine," John said, "Well you don't mind if I just sit and read the paper then?"

Sherlock eyed John suspiciously but did not argue.

So they sat in silence. John pretending to read the paper and Sherlock staring at a blank computer screen. Occasionally Sherlock would type a string of words, but he always deleted them immediately after.

"Writing something?" John asked casually, giving the paper a shake.

"And if I am?"

"Wasn't an accusation, Sherlock, just a question."

"Hmmm."

Perhaps half an hour passed.

"May I see it? Might be able to help, you know."

A pause and then: "If you _must _know," Sherlock sighed dramatically, "I am blogging."

"What?" John asked, "_My_ blog?"

"Where else would one record the adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows dangerously.

John swallowed. "So you're … you're blogging about last night? With – with Moriarty?"

"Oh, _well done_, Dr. Watson. I _must_ be blogging about last night, mustn't I, since we have had no adventures since that time?"

"No need to be so prickly about it …" John murmured, quite hurt. "Have you been up all night doing so?"

"And what if I have?"

John watched Sherlock carefully. He was not blinking, he wasn't moving. Every muscle in his body was taut as a violin string. "Christ, Sherlock, get off your guard, will you? It's just _me_. And you – you should have gone to bed ages ago, you should have-"

Sherlock sprang from the couch, letting the laptop clatter to the floor. "Oh shut _up_, John! _Bloody_ hell. Just. Shut. Up."

John stood, refusing to be deterred. "Sherlock, how many nicotine patches have you got on? Christ. That's too many, you'll-"

"Oh John, you silly little simpleton. I am _thinking_. They _help_ me to think. How many times must I tell you?" He had calmed, and he was resting his forehead against the wall, beside the darts.

"And what, do tell, are you thinking about? You haven't got any cases. The blog? Sherlock, blogs are for normal people, they don't require this much thinking …"

"Well this one does, John, _this one does_."

"And why didn't you let me write it then, hm? Save yourself the trouble. Surely you've got more important things to worry about."

Sherlock turned his head on the spot, giving John a pathetic look. How might he express to the doctor that this case could _not_ be blogged about? That it was entirely different in every sense of the word? That all those times Sherlock had told John that caring would not help him solve a case had been negated the moment he'd seen John strapped to a bomb? That standing in that pool, in that moment when everything seemed lost, Sherlock had been able to think of at least nine different ways of risking his life to escape. _Nine_ – surely the odds were in his favor that at least one of them would have worked. But he couldn't risk anything. He had stood deaf and dumb to all around him because all he could see in his periphery was John. And he would not, could not, risk John's life. He had allowed himself to be beaten.

How could he blog about that?

"Sherlock, will you sit please?"

Sherlock inhaled deeply through his nose and closed his eyes.

"Sherlock, we don't have to write this one out. I mean … if you'd prefer. Blogs are silly things, anyhow, right?"

Sherlock groaned. "Ah, John, you don't understand. It _must_ be written. But how?"

John mused. "Well, write it then. But, we needn't post it. We can keep it … private. If you'd like. Would that suit better?"

Sherlock opened his eyes. "Private?"

"Yes, Sherlock," John nodded slowly. "Only you and I need know about … last night. What happened to us last night. Now please," he said cautiously, "please come and sit. We will finish that story in our own good time."

And then it was easy. Sherlock returned to the couch. He remained silent, but a few of his wrinkles had relaxed. He'd lost the look of tortured concentration and instead adopted a vacant expression, as if he'd literally lost sight of the real world altogether. His face was calm and his eyelids drooped a little. But he let John peel off the nicotine patches and lie him gently on the couch. Once the sheet was tucked securely around Sherlock's shoulders, John slid to the floor and propped himself against the couch near to Sherlock's knees.

There was silence for a while and then Sherlock asked, "You're not going back to bed, John?"

"No," John reassured. "I'm not tired."

You didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to see that John was physically and emotionally exhausted. And yet Sherlock Holmes himself let the lie go without comment.

"You sleep, Sherlock. We'll make some coffee in the morning," John yawned.

"It is morning, John."

And then John slept, and Sherlock did not. But there was peace in the flat on Baker Street, and for the moment that was enough. And John dreamed about the night at the pool and his dreams were horrifying. And Sherlock meditated on the night at the pool and his thoughts were confused and frustrating. But they did not drive him to madness when John was there, the back of his scruffy head bent over his chest, slowly rising and falling. And it would be as John had said. That night would remain just his and John's, for the time being, and they could figure it all out at a later date. Sherlock could stow it away at the back of his mind and wait for more data on the matter, to decide what it all meant, and whether or not he was actually, truly in love with Dr. John Watson.


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Note: Well, this one is certainly shorter than the first. Thank you so much for your lovely reviews and subscriptions and all of that. I really hadn't intended for this to be more than a one-shot, but since I found I couldn't sleep last night and was merely sitting up thinking of what would happen next, I think I had better continue after all. Now, if that is going to happen, it must be understood that I do NOT want to rehash the entirety of season 2, episode 1. Therefore, even though the beginning of that episode shows clearly what happens in the days immediately following the meeting with Moriarty, my story is going to go a different direction. Anyway, that's all just formality. Please enjoy. The next chapter might take a little longer, my apologies, but if I am going to make this a real story with chapters and whatnot, that's going to take a little brainwork. But please enjoy this adorable fluff in the meantime._

* * *

><p>When John awoke for the second time that fateful morning, it was to the sound of music. But not … not violin music, this was … Billie Holiday? And then there was … the smell of coffee? But Sherlock did not know how to make the coffee. That, like most of the other domestic activities, was John's job. And there wasn't just coffee … no, could that be bacon?<p>

Oh! Right, Mrs. Hudson must have come up to make breakfast. She had a knack for knowing when the boys had a particularly rough night.

John rolled over and opened his eyes, "Mrs. Hudson," he began, "Thank you, I-"

"Oh." It was Sherlock standing there, though looking remarkably _like_ Mrs. Hudson in a pink cooking apron and holding a spatula. "Ah. Yes, good morning John. Well … afternoon by this time. Yes, afternoon doctor."

John got up slowly, cautiously. This was for two reasons. One: his neck and shoulders were in agony after the position he'd chosen by the couch. And two: Sherlock in this state might be dangerous. If he was … _cooking_, well, there was no telling what he might do. John approached him as he would a madman.

"Afternoon, Sherlock …" he said.

The cooking wasn't all. The entirety of the kitchen seemed to be clean … more or less. The table was a clear surface anyway, though John could see the pantry would not close all the way, and he supposed that's where Sherlock had temporarily stored his equipment. "What's all this, then?"

Sherlock looked down towards the activity at hand. "Well," he bunched his eyebrows bewilderingly, "I would have thought it would have been obvious. It's bacon, John."

John nodded, "Ah, yes of course it is. But why are you cooking it? Experiment?"

Sherlock snorted. "Experiment." He seemed to muse on the word for a moment or two. "Ah, John, you are clever." Here was an appreciative laugh and Sherlock wiped a pretend mirthful tear from the corner of his eye.

He turned for a moment, and came back holding a steaming mug between his long fingers. "Here you are, just as the doctor ordered." Sherlock's smile was dazzling.

John took the coffee, but could not help watching Sherlock carefully. Where was the train wreck of the night before? Where were the wrinkles and the frowns? Not that John particularly _liked_ to see his friend that way – but it was rather suspicious, this sudden change. And, of course, if he'd had to admit it to himself, it had been nice to see Sherlock a little unhinged. Maybe what … Moriarty … had said wasn't so wrong after all. Maybe Sherlock did have a heart of some sort; maybe he had been just as frightened as John had, coming that close to their deaths.

John took a tentative sip. "Good," he conceded, "it's good."

Then there was a plate in front of him – bacon and eggs. Odd. Very odd.

"Oh!" Sherlock exclaimed, but when he got there it was too late. In fact, there was a little curl of smoke coming from the poor toaster.

"Damn it all!" shouted Sherlock.

"Sherlock, it's all right-"

"No, John, that was the last of the bread. Damn."

John frowned in confusion, but perhaps Sherlock mistook it for disappointment.

"Don't worry, John, don't worry. I'll just nip down to the grocer and be back before–"

"No," John shook his head, "No, Sherlock, it's fine. Please just sit. And … thank you."

Sherlock nodded and did indeed sit down, but it was only to observe John as he ate. As always, this habit made John very uncomfortable. Made him feel like a dying man, as if Sherlock were watching him to see which breath might be his last, that frightening intense scrutiny.

The music continued to play in the background. Billie Holiday.

_I say I'll move the mountains_

_And I'll move the mountains_

_If he wants them out of the way._

_Crazy he calls me._

_Sure, I'm crazy …_

John jerked his head towards the sound. "Since when do you listen to-"

"Oh no, John, don't be silly," Sherlock chuckled. "There's no music for me but classical. I think you know that. No, this was the most frequently played on your laptop. Dreadful foolish nonsense, of course, but then …"

John raised his eyebrows inquisitively.

"Well," Sherlock stood and removed his apron. "I suppose it's no Beethoven, but there's certainly worse out there." He smiled again. That stupid crooked smile. John knew it was genuine, because Sherlock's fake smiles – the ones he used on other people – were always perfectly straight. The smiles reserved for John were lopsided and silly and, if John could speak plainly, frankly ridiculous. But they always made John smile back.

"Ah, I see."

"Yes."

"So, is there a reason for all of this? Have I forgotten my own birthday, or-"

"Well," Sherlock evaded the kitchen quickly and went for his coat. "So much to do, John, you know. Better be off."

"Sherlock-"

"Enjoy your breakfast, John."

And then he was gone.

_Crazy in love, I say …_


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's Note: Ah yes, chapter three indeed. I feel like I'm struggling as much as Sherlock with this particular story/problem, so if anyone has any brilliant ideas, feel free to shoot them my way, though I have a rather hazy notion of where I'd like to go. And if I do go the way I think I might, prepare for a dark and dangerous Sherlock to emerge. Now on to a few formalities: first, thank you so much for your reviews - as always, they're the only way I have of gauging whether or not the story is progressing as it should. And second, my public apologies issued to kamelion, who has shown me that I was rather hasty in my accusations of those who prefer a strictly heterosexual Sherlock and John. Theirs is, as we have seen, quite a complicated case. _

* * *

><p>"Right," John said to himself as he heard the door slam behind his friend. "Right."<p>

Footsteps upon the stair told him that the _real_ Mrs. Hudson was approaching then, not a Sherlock wanna-be in a pink apron.

"Afternoon, Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh, hullo John dear. How are we this morning?"

Mrs. Hudson always said "we" in a way which left you unsure whether she was talking about just you, you and she, or the entirety of the British Isles.

"Fine. Good. Know where Sherlock was off to?" John went to the window and looked down just as the tails of Sherlock's coat were disappearing around the corner.

"Oh, who knows? Always runs off in such a hurry, doesn't he? Might have done with a thicker scarf, though, it's rather brisk out."

John nodded but stood watching a few seconds longer. When he turned around, Mrs. Hudson was still there, smiling daftly. She seemed to think he got lonely when Sherlock went out, because she always came up to check on him. And John knew this afternoon would proceed just as they usually did in similar circumstances...

"Cup of tea, John dear? Care to watch a little telly with a lonely old lady?"

* * *

><p>Yes, the afternoon was cold. The clouds were grey and looked terribly menacing hanging so low. Sherlock proceeded down windswept streets quite unaware of his final destination. Didn't really matter. Brisk walking was good for thinking.<p>

Phase one of the experiment had gone along without a hitch. Sherlock stopped while crossing a bridge and stared out along the Thames. But how should he interpret the results? Making breakfast for one's partner was a very romantic activity for normal people. However, as far as Sherlock could tell, nothing had felt different about his and John's relationship at that time. John had seemed a little surprised, perhaps, but there had been no covert smiles or fireworks or blushing. Nothing like in the movies, which – to Sherlock's mortification – were all he had to go on, of course never having had a romantic attachment before.

Sherlock, poor Sherlock, took a little notebook and a pen from his breast pocket. The page to which he turned was blank. He drew a line down the middle and titled the two sides: the left side was called "Love" and the right side was called "Not Love". Beneath the right-side heading, "Not Love", he made a little tally and looked back out on the water. He thought about the many adventures he and John had had together. He thought about the many times John had risked his life for him, and the many times he had been so worried about John being in danger that he'd thought his heart had stopped. Sherlock placed another little tally in his notebook, this time beneath the left-side heading, "Love" and his eyebrows crinkled into a familiar frown. So far … the score was tied.

"This is _useless_!" he yelled, and several people turned to stare. No apology would pass Sherlock's lips, however. His worries were too important, and manners were just a silly formality, anyhow.

* * *

><p>John was just beginning to contemplate going out to look for Sherlock when the door opened.<p>

"Oh, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed. "Oh, do come join us, Sherlock, we're having _such_ fun!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, but I have little time for-" Sherlock stopped himself and looked back towards where Mrs. Hudson and the doctor were sitting on the cramped little couch.

John gave him a very suspicious look as Sherlock's face went from brooding to smiling in less than a second.

"Well, what are we watching!" Sherlock clapped his hands excitedly.

He stood in front of the couch and looked at both Mrs. Hudson and John expectantly. The landlady and the doctor obediently moved over to give him room in the middle.

When Sherlock had taken his seat, he could feel John's leg snugly pressed against his. While Mrs. Hudson chattered on about who and what and why on the television, Sherlock discreetly checked his pulse. He checked it three separate times before finally standing and telling Mrs. Hudson: "It was the maid. The husband's sleeping with the maid and the wife is a lesbian. Don't bother watching the end, it is sure to prove dull." Then he was dashing up the stairs.

"Oh," muttered Mrs. Hudson dejectedly, "Oh I see…"

John stayed just a moment to comfort the landlady. When he got upstairs, he found Sherlock standing near the window, a little notebook in hand. If he could have seen what Sherlock was writing, he would have seen a second little tally appear under the right-side column: "Not Love".

"That wasn't very nice."

"Serves her right for watching such trivial garbage," Sherlock mumbled distractedly.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock looked up to see John giving him that look. The _I-don't-care-how-smart-you-are-I'm-right-about-this_ look.

Sherlock gave a fantastic eye roll. "Oh, she'll be _fine_, John. Mrs. Hudson has a remarkable talent for bouncing back almost instantly after _severe emotional trauma_." These last words were delivered dripping with sarcasm.

"Mhm," John sat on the couch and opened his laptop. "I see."

Sherlock bristled at having John's attention be distracted from himself … then decided this reaction merited another tally beneath the "Love" heading. "Hmmm."

"Hmmm what, Sherlock?" John asked, and Sherlock could tell he was annoyed.

"Nothing."

"Something," John corrected. "Something's going on with you. Are you going to tell me, or make me guess?"

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. "Interesting … _Can_ you guess?"

John shook his head. "Ugh," he groaned, "never mind."

Sherlock exhaled harshly through his nose.

"Stop that," John said.

"Stop what?"

"You only breathe like that when you're angry. And you've no reason to be. Mrs. Hudson should be angry. And I should be angry. Not you, Sherlock, not this time."

Sherlock put his hands on his hips and his face clearly said, _How dare you!_

But John would not take the bait. He neither looked up from his computer, nor so much as acknowledged Sherlock's tantrum as the world's only consulting detective stomped all the way to the bedroom.

But it was an act, and Sherlock was a seasoned performer. He lie down on his stomach on the bed, set a timer on his watch for ten minutes, pulled out his notebook, and waited.

The timer read only seven minutes and thirty-three seconds when he heard John sigh heavily and walk towards the bedroom. Sherlock had just time to jot a little check beneath "Love" and pack up his equipment before John reached the door.

"Sherlock …" he began, but Sherlock rolled over with a brilliant smile.

"I'm hungry, John. Dinner?" he asked charmingly.

"Uh … sure," said the doctor, completely befuddled.

And the two bundled up and left the flat, looking every inch the familiar Sherlock Holmes and John Watson the world knew and loved. Only the detective could have told you – but of course he never would have – that what he was planning was not just a casual dinner between friends. This would be another experiment. And the poor doctor, well, he was little aware that his potentiality as a lover was currently being closely observed and recorded by little checkmarks in a drab old pocket notebook. The detective had not yet deduced the most dire part of all these proceedings – that if the doctor ever found said notebook, Sherlock would be experimenting not on John's proficiency as a lover, but on how he might ever be able to win John back, even as a friend…


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's Note:__Aha, finally a bit of real action in this chapter, haha, or the beginnings of it anyhow. I am rather fond of this chapter, and I hope you will be as well. Not much more to say other than, thank you - as always - for the lovely reviews. If you keep it up, then I will do the same. Enjoy!_

* * *

><p>Dinner was a rather extravagant affair. There were candles and a white tablecloth and a little violin being played in one corner. John shifted uncomfortably in his seat.<p>

"Sherlock, when you said 'dinner', I thought you meant …"

Sherlock looked up from his perusal of the menu, a hint of confusion on his face. "Yes?"

"Well … something a bit more casual. Or, well, or carryout, you know, like we usually do?" The waiter was daintily pouring champagne in two sparkly little flute glasses.

"Merci beaucoup," said Sherlock distractedly, waving the waiter away, "You don't appreciate fine dining, John. I thought you might like to try something ... new?"

"Right … okay. Well, sure, but you might have told me. I could have, you know, put on something a little more appropriate?"

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively and sipped at the champagne. "Oh posh, John, you care far too much what others think of you."

John resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. "Well, we could have invited Mrs. Hudson, you know, she would love the chance to get dressed up and go to a place like this. Don't you think?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Something wrong with just the two of us?"

But instead of an answer, John narrowed his eyes right back at the detective and then huffily poured himself another drink.

There was silence then. In fact, there was silence throughout _most_ of the meal. John ordered an extravagant affair and was a little perturbed that Sherlock decided to skip food altogether and content himself with sipping champagne.

John opened his mouth to protest, but Sherlock beat him to it:

"Not hungry, John, thank you. Please," and he gestured for John to enjoy his own meal.

John noticed that Sherlock rather rushed dinner. How could he possibly have guessed it was because Sherlock was not interested in the date itself, but rather how it would end? When the duo came back to the flat, John was a little unsettled to behold Sherlock open the door for him. When they got upstairs, John was a little disturbed to observe Sherlock follow him to the door of his bedroom. When they got to John's bedroom door, John was completely at a loss to discover why Sherlock lingered there, and what exactly he was waiting for.

"Uh … well, thank you, Sherlock. Dinner was delicious. I, um, I think I'm just going to bed now. You know how exhausting afternoons with Mrs. Hudson are …"

Sherlock nodded empathetically, never breaking eye contact with John.

"So …" John continued awkwardly, "I'll see you in the morning?"

Sherlock nodded again. "Certainly."

"Well. Goodnight then, Sherlock…"

"Goodnight, John."

John closed the door on Sherlock still standing there, rather expectantly.

Getting into bed, John could only hope that tomorrow might bring back a semblance of Sherlock's sanity. God knew England could not afford the loss of his massive intellect…

Sherlock sat on the sofa and placed two little check marks beneath the right-side heading, "No Love" – one for the miserable failure of what might otherwise have been considered a "date", and one for the pointed lack of any type of goodnight endearment, kiss or otherwise. He studied the two columns carefully. The "Love" column had a promising number of tallies for only a day and a half, yet the "Not Love" column had pulled a definite lead. Sherlock sat back and took a deep breath…

* * *

><p>The next few weeks found poor Dr. Watson more confused and frustrated than ever. Sherlock had yet to recover, it seemed. He had been acting strangely ever since the breakfast he'd made John, the morning after their encounter with Moriarty. Evidences of what John would call eccentricities, and what Sherlock called experiments, came in many different forms. There was the time Sherlock won a teddy bear and gave it to John at a street fair they were attending, following a suspect. Then there was the time Sherlock had interrogated John up and down on why, <em>exactly<em>, he had liked Sarah so much – some of the questions definitely bordered on the inappropriate. Or the time Sherlock left John a voicemail with little more than the sound of his own breathing. From there on out, things only got more unusual. Well, unusual for John – for Sherlock, it was all in the name of science. He _was_ trying to solve a mystery, after all. There was the time John caught Sherlock spying on him in the shower. The time Sherlock himself had strolled through the apartment casually stripped of any shred of clothing, watching carefully for John's reaction. And finally, the time John had woken to Sherlock actually lying next to him in his own bed. That had been the last straw. The two had not spoken for nearly a week.

But that was all right with Sherlock, because by the looks of things, all his little experiments were working quite nicely. When he sat down to interpret his findings, he discovered there was a steady trend in the "Not Love" direction – John had failed to respond to the gifts or the intimate gestures; they had both failed to have any reaction to the other naked (other than John installing a lock on the loo door, and expressly telling Sherlock that even if it _was_ only a sheet, he needed to wear _something_ around the flat); and Sherlock had given the last experiment, sleeping in John's bed, a definitive three tallies for John's violent reaction to _that_ one.

He was feeling rather pleased with himself, sitting upon the sofa with his feet up. John was off somewhere with Sarah – in fact, he'd been spending more and more time with Sarah now that Sherlock was acting so bizarrely – which, if Sherlock considered, was just one more tally in the "Not Love" column. Yes, Sherlock decided, it might indeed be safe to say that he was most assuredly _not_ in love with John Watson.

That was, of course, until Sherlock received the call late that evening from an hysterical Sarah, explaining that she didn't know what happened: one moment she and John had been strolling along the river, the next …

If Sherlock had been at all interested in his previous experimentation, he might have thought to put down a tally beneath the "Love" column, for the urgency with which he dashed from his apartment to Sarah's and the sudden dread that was threatening to choke him.

Luckily for all involved, however, Sherlock's love for John was such that he was prepared to drop any and all other mysteries at that moment – even if the other mystery was, ironically, his love for John.


	5. Chapter 5

_Author's Note: Now, I know we've all gotten very used to silly and fluffy Sherlock, but I don't think I could forgive myself if we didn't also bring in a little dark and scary Sherlock. So, here we are - a little action and a little angst. Nothing else to say really. Please enjoy!_

* * *

><p>The night had not gotten any warmer and Sherlock was a little surprised that John had gone out at all – the man absolutely despised the cold. For whatever reason, the diminutive army doctor simply could not handle it – he had been known to stay inside for days on end if the weather was bad. No groceries would be bought, no dates would be had, Sherlock had even known John to call off work if the temperature dropped below freezing. It was only Sherlock himself who could pry the good doctor from his cozy cocoon of many-layered jumpers and quilts when he needed to. Sherlock realized he was smiling at just such memories as he dashed through the London streets, and immediately scolded himself. This was certainly no time for reminiscing. He needed to be thinking of the case at hand. <em>Thinking<em>, damnit.

He met Sarah at the door and brushed past her almost immediately. "Sit," he ordered, and when she had complied, he folded his long legs to kneel in front of her.

"Stop crying," was the first thing he said, a little less than comfortingly.

"Stop _crying_," he repeated when she failed to listen to his previous instructions.

Sherlock took hold of Sarah's shoulders quite firmly and forced her to look into his cloudy eyes. "Sarah, listen to me. _Please_ stop. Please stop crying and listen, and then remember." Well, considering the circumstances, Sherlock supposed a "please" wasn't all that hard to get out...

Sarah's sobs quieted temporarily.

"Um…" she began, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Um?" he prompted. "Yes?"

"There was a car."

"And?"

"It was black."

Before Sarah could blink, the strange detective was across the room and on his phone. He allowed himself a temporary, possible, reprieve from his panic.

"_Sherlock, you're calling. How … _pleasant_," _said the voice at the other end.

"Shut up. Mycroft. Is John with you?"

"_Dr. Watson? Why would you think so, Sherlock?"_

"You and John love to have your little gossip-about-Sherlock dates. Is he _with_ you? I don't care what you're doing, I just need to know that he's … safe."

"_Safe? Sherlock, I haven't seen Dr. Watson in days."_

"So help me, Mycroft, if you're lying to me …"

"_Sherlock, what's going-?"_

Sherlock clicked the phone shut then, because the note of concern in his elder brother's voice told him that no, indeed Mycroft was not with John, and so the brief hope Sherlock had entertained that this was all just a possible misunderstanding vanished instantly.

"Who-" Sarah began, but Sherlock cut her off.

"Shut up," Sherlock told her. "Tell me what_ exactly_ happened this evening. From start to finish. Leave nothing out. Quickly."

And Sarah began, between frequent outbursts of emotion for which Sherlock had little patience. John had picked her up around six. They'd gone to dinner. "He was acting strangely all night. Quiet. Not like John at all. He seemed _distracted_ … like he was thinking about something else."

Sherlock could have told her that a quiet John wasn't always bad. In fact, there were exactly six reasons why John Watson might be silent. Yes, he could be distracted, thinking hard about something. But he also could have been intrigued by something or someone; sleepy; irritated; depressed; or even happy. Sherlock had observed John keep quiet when extremely content on occasion, as if he didn't want to speak and ruin the moment. It was pointless to explain to Sarah these subtle differences in quiet-John, to explain that she _might_ have taken note of his posture or the position of his tongue between his lips, or the wrinkles about his eyes, if she'd wanted to distinguish which of these quiet-Johns she was dealing with. But then, Sarah could never know John like Sherlock knew John.

"When we left, he suggested we take a walk."

"A walk?" Sherlock scoffed. "It's freezing."

"He thought the river might look-"

"No no no _NO_. You should have _realized_ something was wrong immediately!"

"Sherlock, how could I-"

"John hates the cold. Jesus, I'm dealing with idiots." A bit of frantic pacing. But Sherlock regained his composure and returned to the sofa.

"Continue," he ordered curtly, which was about as close to apologetically as he came.

After a few sniffles, Sarah did her best to carry on. "We walked for a while. He wouldn't hold my hand. Kept to himself. I was just humoring him, you know. Then his phone rang. He looked at it but didn't answer. He told me he thought he forgot something at the restaurant. He bought me a coffee at a little café and told me he'd be right back."

"Is that all?"

"No …" Sarah continued weakly. "I knew he was lying. I thought perhaps it had been another woman, you know, who had phoned. So I followed him. He went the opposite direction of the restaurant. He went towards the docks. There was a car waiting. Like I told you, a black car. I was too far away to see anything. No one got out."

Sherlock was leaning forward, desperately hanging onto every word. His eyes narrowed. "Did John get in? You were sobbing when you called. You wouldn't have been so upset if John had just gotten into a strange car. What _happened_, Sarah, for _God's_ sake?"

"Gunshots. Just one. But John fell down … and they - they took him."

"_Took_ him?"

"Yes."

"And you didn't-"

"Didn't what, Sherlock? What would you have me do?" Sarah was crying again, little streams running down her cheeks and a red nose that kept sniffling. Sherlock was disgusted.

"Is that all you can remember?"

"Yes. Yes, I think that's all."

Sherlock stood to leave, but a last curiosity made him ask: "Why did you think it was a woman phoning?"

"Well, it's not the first time he's ignored a call with me there."

"Common courtesy," Sherlock dismissed it.

"No," Sarah smiled through her tears, "He'd always chuckle and tell me it was just _you_ phoning."

"So?" Sherlock's eyebrows creased.

Sarah looked a little confused. "Well, John never ignores your calls…"

"Oh."

* * *

><p>On the way home, Sherlock made a few brief phone calls. One was once again to Mycroft, saying he <em>knew<em> that Mycroft was having the pair of them watched and he would like whatever information Mycroft's people could provide. "_Sherlock, no one is watching _John_. Only when he's with _you_ … there's little reason for us to keep secret surveillance on a perfectly harmless ex-army doctor._" _That_ had been his brother's disappointing answer. Sherlock almost couldn't contain his revulsion. But there were more important steps to take at the moment, steps that required immediacy. So Sherlock hung up the phone for the second time in an hour, leaving his poor elder brother rather concerned. But Mycroft knew better than to call back. Sherlock would be busy – very busy indeed, if in fact Dr. John Watson had gone missing…

The second phone call was to Lestrade.

"_Don't know how _many_ men we can spare at present, Sherlock, what with the foreign minister in town and that double homicide down on Regent Street, but_-"

"Oh _damn_ the minister, Lestrade! Have I ever, _ever_, asked a favor of you after all I've done for the mighty 'Scotland Yard'?"

Lastrade let the sarcasm, and the insult, go without comment. "_I understand Sherlock. But asking me to block off _every_ road out of London, search _every_ black car –she really couldn't tell you what type of car it was? – well, Sherlock, it's just a bit-_"

"Well, what in bloody hell _can_ you do for me, then?" Sherlock demanded.

"_I'm not supposed to even _take_ a missing person's report until twenty-four hours, Sherlock, you _know_ that_."

A highly irritated sigh.

"_But_," Lestrade interrupted, "_I'll get some men down to investigate the docks near Castleford Bridge – I'll go along myself, if it would make you feel better_."

Sherlock laughed scornfully.

"_I'll _also_ get somebody tracking John's phone and pulling up his records_."

Another sarcastic chuckle, which the good inspector pointedly ignored.

"_And I'll bring the coffee. See you in-_"

"No no no, Inspector. I've got some of my own investigating to do. But I'm sure you'll crack the case all on your. You and fucking Anderson walking circles around the damn docks."

"_Sherlock, it's all I can do right now.._."

There was silence, and then a very quiet, very reluctant: "Thank you, Lestrade," and the line went dead.

Sherlock had reached Baker Street. And poor, poor Mrs. Hudson. No drugs bust, no amount of thumbs in the fridge, or bullets in the wall could prepare her for the damage Sherlock Holmes was about to inflict, tearing the flat apart from the ground up.


	6. Chapter 6

_Author's Note: You guys have really been amazing with your reviews and subscriptions, and with letting me figure this whole nonsense out on my own, ha, please do continue to be as wonderful as ever. So, back to business - I really, really like this chapter and I hope you'll feel the same. It is a little sad, and I'm not very good at writing suspense, but bear with me. I have loved getting to this point, and I think I have the basic plot for the rest of the story all mapped out. If all goes according to plan, the chapters should keep coming fairly regularly._

* * *

><p>John Watson was not a man who let himself be overcome by such a petty emotion as fear. Though he'd never gone deeply into the philosophy of the issue, he supposed he was rather a "<em>que sera, sera"<em> type of a person. If he was going to die, then he was going to die. If he was going to be tortured, then he was going to be tortured. If the last time he'd seen Sherlock had truly been the last time, then there was little he could do about it. One might consider this a defeatist attitude – but that was not how John saw it. Of course he would do everything and anything in his power to fight back, to survive, but he had learned long ago that making peace with one's circumstances can be much more effective than whining and throwing useless punches and asking "_Why me?_". Being a soldier was one thing, but what had really gotten him to this Zen frame of mind was being a _doctor_ for soldiers – being that man to whom dying men clung for their last hopes, usually synonymous with their last breaths.

Not everybody was the hero of the story, John had learned – some were, in fact, merely foot soldiers, meant to perish in battle for a greater cause. And John knew for a fact that he was _not_ a hero. If the good doctor had ever fancied himself as such, it had only taken a few days with Sherlock Holmes to cure him of _that_ ridiculous notion. _No_, John Watson thought as he prepared to open his eyes and face whatever there might be to face, _Sherlock Holmes is the hero_. And if Sherlock's ultimate victory must claim a few innocent lives, well, John was more than happy to lay his down for the cause.

* * *

><p>"Sherlock? Sherlock dear, what <em>are<em> you looking for?"

"Mrs. Hudson, if you could return to _wherever_ you came from and kindly _remain_ there I would be much obliged," Sherlock managed to grind out between clenched teeth.

"But dear, I don't think John would appreciate you-"

"Mrs. Hudson!"

Mrs. Hudson, despite her prolonged acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes, never seemed to learn her lesson. Or rather, she learned it rather painfully over and over and over again…

"Oh …" she squeaked, and hurried downstairs as quietly as she could.

The usually composed consulting detective was currently sprawled in the middle of the floor in John Watson's bedroom, amidst a colossal mess made up of all the contents of the doctor's dresser, closet, and desk. Sherlock had dumped every drawer, emptied every cabinet, and turned out every pair of dirty trouser-pockets. Everything that John had come into contact with during his tenancy at Baker Street was surrounding Sherlock, threatening to drown him.

"John," Sherlock mused aloud, "you weren't _attacked._ Nobody came after you. You put _yourself_ in danger. You went to meet it. Why? Who were you _expecting_ to find? ...Whom _did_ you find?"

It didn't make any sense. It didn't _fit_. Poor, silly, _simple_ John Watson. _He_ didn't have secrets. _Sherlock_ was the distant one, the mysterious one, the one at whom others looked and exclaimed: "How can we ever know what goes on in that funny-odd head?" But John, no! The good doctor was _transparent_ in his simplicity. Sherlock had caught him in each and every lie he'd ever tried to tell. So how had he – according to Sarah's testimony – been in contact with someone for weeks and kept it quiet? How had he managed to slip out right under Sherlock's nose – God, only hours ago – without Sherlock knowing that something was amiss?

Sherlock left the bedroom – left the taxi receipts and theater stubs and dirty socks. There was nothing to be found there. Nor was there anything to be found in the living room, on the shelf amidst John's books or stored away on his laptop. Nothing.

Sherlock lay down on the living room floor and stared up at the ceiling. It was not a vantage with which he was unfamiliar. Lying on one's back tended to clear one's vision of all the room's clutter, and Sherlock was used to doing so when he was in the middle of a particularly vexing problem. It sort of gave one a new perspective on things. So Sherlock assumed the position and pressed his fingertips together, letting the index fingers of his joined hands slowly tap his lips. But the scent of John was heavy on his fingers after rifling through the doctor's things, and Sherlock threw his own hands away from his face and sat upright almost immediately.

Sherlock paced instead. He put the offensive hands in his pockets and walked about the living room, trying to recall any instance in the past few weeks where maybe John had seemed even the _slightest_ bit suspicious. There was none. There was nothing. Those memories were as empty of any evidence as John's own bedroom. How could John _be_ so cunning? Sherlock had seen through some of the greatest criminal minds in London; he'd outsmarted the best and brightest in the world. How had John – simple, tea and biscuits, afternoon telly, solitaire in the evenings, John – duped him?

Sherlock kicked a few books around in his frustration. The tension in his head eased slightly. That was something new. Physical outbursts were not for superior intellects. But the primal release of venting one's emotions on an inanimate object was rather cathartic. Sherlock picked up the very book he'd just kicked and tried throwing it against the wall, experimentally of course. Same result: he felt just a little less weighted down… After that, it would have taken the entirety of the British navy to stop Sherlock Holmes kicking and throwing and punching anything and everything that came under the scrutiny of his stormy grey eye.

It started in the living room, but it ended in his bedroom. He knocked over his dresser, ripped the bulb from the closet and shattered it against the windowsill, punched a hole through the wall and watched, morbidly fascinated, as the blood dripped from his knuckles. It wasn't until he'd progressed to the destruction of his bed that he made any _real _progress. The comforter came off first, and Sherlock ripped it open with the shards from the light bulb, delighting in pulling the feathers out and tossing them angrily about. The pillows were tossed clean out of the broken window. The mattress suffered a few puncture wounds from a pen before being hauled off and thrown carelessly into the hall. But it was then – ah, it was _then_ – that Sherlock's eye was caught by something out of place. It must have been under the mattress. A notebook? No. A _diary_.

One look at it told Sherlock it must be John's. But kept under _Sherlock's_ bed? "Oh Dr. Watson," the detective chuckled fondly, "It seems I never gave you the credit you deserved."

"Clever," Sherlock mused as he paced around the diary. He left it where it had fallen, stepping gingerly around the broken glass, books, and downy feathers about the floor, staring down the diary in the same manner he might an intellectual enemy. "Clever, clever, John," he muttered.

Finally, Sherlock snatched the diary from the floor and took it into the living room. He cleared enough of the sofa to allow sitting room, and placed the diary on his knees. It had already been stained with blood from his damaged knuckles.

Sherlock studied the diary for a long time before opening it. But of course … there was nothing he could deduce from the appearance of the journal that he had not already learned simply by being John's … friend.

The first page was boring, as was the second, and the third. Dates and events and the musings of an everyday, painfully average man. John had started the diary a few weeks before Sherlock had met him, presumably when he'd returned from abroad. John had written about mildly enjoyable dates with random women, frustrating appointments with his therapist, angry phone calls made to his sister, walks he'd taken and meals he'd eaten and nights he'd slept and nights he hadn't. And a few pages in, when John and Sherlock had met, entries continued as they always had, but almost every page was filled with observances of Sherlock.

… _Tall, baffling, elegant …_

… _Brilliant and mad, all at once ..._

Sherlock chuckled. What use was there in keeping a diary when John spoke all these thoughts aloud? Surely a diary implied something internal and personal and … _private_?

Then, after the first impressions, there were descriptions of John's life as he became adjusted to living with Sherlock. Rants about the strange things he'd find in the kitchen, the loud noises that kept him up at night, the awkwardness of sharing a flat with someone who knew you better than you knew yourself …

All of this Sherlock knew – he'd_ lived_ these moments for God's sake – there was nothing new written in the diary, nothing unexpected. And yet the detective read every page. Every silly little anecdote and frustration in the life of silly little John Watson. There was no mention of the cases, however – apparently those were reserved for the blog. This, _this_ was John and Sherlock's domestic life written on paper in ink. Their friendship, Sherlock realized. And if John's diary was anything to go by, their friendship consumed John's entire life…

Then came the entry for the night that Sherlock and John had first met Moriarty, only a few weeks ago. Sherlock could never forget _that_ date. And yet all John had written was:

_Shall I tell him?_

After that entry there was little written at all. Some nights there would be just a blank page, some nights just a few scribbled words:

_Tired, can't sleep._

Or:

_What to do … what to do …_

Or:

_Fuck… Damn._

One night's entry was just a little doodle of a gun, oddly morbid in its cartoonish simplicity.

The last entry in the diary simply read:

_Right._

But there was a pattern developing. Next to the date of each night's entry there was a little box that John had drawn in. Some of the nights, John had put a little "x" in the box, some nights the box was empty. None of the entries previous to the night with Moriarty had little boxes, though, checked or otherwise.

"Odd," Sherlock mused, "what in the _world_ were you up to, John?"

The answer came in the form of a few bits of loose-leaf stuck in between random pages. They were just scraps, torn from bits of newspaper or from dinner menus. There were numbers written on them – phone numbers, the area codes of which told Sherlock the numbers were from all over England. There must have been a dozen of them. But between the last page of the diary and the back cover was one last little scrap. Different from the others in both appearance and content. The paper, which had once been a neat little square of stationary, had been so frequently and violently crumpled that it was soft to the touch, and the ink was smeared where once it had been a very neat penmanship. The words written upon it read thus:

_I'll be seeing you soon, my pet. Very soon. _

_-JM _

And then Sherlock was back to punching walls and breaking glass, because it was all so _obvious_, wasn't it? The phone numbers, the little checked boxes – meant to indicate all the times John had been contacted. The disturbing entries after the meeting with Moriarty – the meeting at which the criminal _must_ have left John that very, very threatening note. John had known all along that his days were numbered, that Moriarty was coming for him (… _Should I tell him_ …), and Sherlock, God, _Sherlock_ had been conducting experiments on John's sexuality!

The most brilliant mind in the world had missed _everything _because he'd had something else on his mind altogether. Love. What a dangerous weakness indeed…

* * *

><p>Doctor John Watson opened his eyes to find exactly the man he had expected. It could be no other, with that silly smirk and the soft brown eyes.<p>

"You've been pretending to be asleep for _far_ too long, my pet. I've grown rather _bored_ waiting for you to finally give it up…"

The doctor sat as still as he could, staring straight ahead of him. He knew that stupid sing-sing voice would drive him mad ere long, if nothing else did.

"Oh, come now," the criminal purred, "_Johnny-be-good_. Let _loose_ a little, won't you? We might have a _very_ nice time together, you and I, a very nice time indeed…"

The doctor closed his eyes again. No, John Watson was no hero…


	7. Chapter 7

_Author's Note: Ah yes, another fairly long chapter. Please don't be too upset with me for doing what I did with John - I just couldn't bring myself to hurt him! Not after watching last night's season two finale - our dear Dr. Watson has suffered enough for one night. Anyhow, please enjoy, and fear not, a happy ending cannot be too far away, now can it?_

* * *

><p><em>I say I'll go through fire<em>

_And I'll go through fire_

_As he wants it, so it will be …_

"Sherlock, dear, you've been listening to these silly records for days. Maybe you want to play your violin? Or – or do a bit of walking. Get out, you know. Might be good for you. Or, I don't know, dear, maybe…" Mrs. Hudson let her voice trail off into the stillness of the room. It wasn't often that Sherlock Holmes allowed her to finish a thought, and so perhaps she didn't quite know _how_.

"Really, fresh air does wonders …"

Sherlock sat with his long legs stretched out before him, slouched on the sofa, lazily smoking a cigarette.

"It's warmed up a bit, you know. Took a stroll just this afternoon and it was positively _lovely_. Smells like spring, Sherlock …"

Sherlock took a long drag, closed his eyes, and let his head fall back against the cushion before exhaling. His grey eyes opened to look past Mrs. Hudson, through the lace curtains, out the window.

"Sherlock, dear, if John could see you now, he'd-"

"Get out."

"Sh - Sherlock?"

"Get out."

And so the weeks passed. Sherlock had nothing to go on – no leads whatsoever. Lestrade had pulled up John's phone records, of course, but none of the numbers could be traced … of course. Jim Moriarty was no amateur. There were only two people who knew the truth about _this_ mystery. One was John – John, who knew Sherlock so well he had successfully covered his tracks to the point where Sherlock didn't stand a chance of helping him; the other was Moriarty – Moriarty, who Sherlock might finally be convinced had been smart enough to beat him…

Didn't matter. Sherlock's brain didn't seem to be up to solving cases, anyhow. It was heavy, and sluggish, and any time he tried to concentrate, important facts and clues were clouded over by memories of John. Not memories of John that might help _rescue_ him, of course, but everyday, normal, _boring_ memories of John. John struggling to figure out the crossword, tongue poking out between his teeth; John brushing his teeth in the evening, popping his head out of the loo to ask Sherlock some mundane and absolutely trivial question; the sound of John's footsteps, always a pace or two behind him, wherever he might go; John in a particularly silly-looking jumper; John scowling at sergeant Donovan when she called Sherlock "freak"; John eating, sleeping, coughing; John's jaw set firm against a problem he couldn't solve; John dancing alone, in the dark, drunk, to an old Billie Holiday tune …

Sherlock's days consisted of only a few mundane activities. He sat on the sofa, at all hours of the day. The only change came when he clicked the remote to play the album over again, or when he lit another cigarette. Mrs. Hudson hadn't even bothered to protest when he'd told her to go to the corner store and buy him as many packs as she could carry. He chain-smoked them, letting them burn out in between his fingers and dropping the butts on the carpet. Sometimes Lestrade would call, and that took up a few moments of his miserable daylight hours. Because Sherlock would only stay on the line long enough to hear Lestrade say "Haven't found anything _yet_, Sherlock, but we're looking-" and then he would hang up. Light another smoke, play the record over, remember John's hands. Absurd, really. And he knew it. Sherlock _knew_ he was wasting time. He wasn't concentrating; he was slowly dying in the middle of a messy flat in central London, wrapped in a sheet, dirty and alone and losing his mind. Didn't matter. Didn't matter. Didn't matter.

_Crazy in love, you'll see…_

* * *

><p>Doctor Watson was sitting alone, enjoying the view from his window. From so high up, he could see the river as it snaked its way through the city. He liked to count the little boats bobbing along its wake, or name the bridges one by one by one. It's what he did when he had nothing else to do, which was always. The first few days he'd spent in his new home, he had been ever on his guard, afraid that his lavish accommodations were all a trap. A five star hotel is <em>not<em> the first place he would have imagined a criminal mastermind to keep his prisoners, after all. But on the third day, Mr. Moriarty himself had appeared and explained to John all the twisted little details of his current scheme. John had been so disgusted with himself for falling for it. All those weeks of texts and calls, all containing obvious threats. Oh no, don't be silly – not threats against the doctor. Moriarty's messages always contained threats against _Sherlock's_ life, should John not comply with his wishes exactly. Of course, Moriarty had not actually told John to _do_ anything, not until that last night with Sarah. Then the instructions had been simple: _Come to me_.

And of course John had gone along. Moriarty himself had laughed aloud when he'd realized how easy it had been to lure the doctor away from Baker Street. Of course, he had gotten a little feisty in those last few moments. Didn't matter, he was already exactly where Moriarty needed him. The bullet that had entered John's left thigh – the last bit of _persuasion_ Moriarty had needed – was now neatly bandaged over. And John had sat, still and silent, for three days, waiting to hear from Sherlock's nemesis. When he'd finally come to explain, John had listened in horror to how he had been duped.

"_Hurt _you? Johnny-boy, why in the world would I want to hurt _you_?"

Moriarty had watched John's still, serious face. "What, did you think this was a one-for-one trade? That if you came, I'd just _leave_ Sherlock _alone_?" Moriarty's smile melted into a mock-frown. "Ah, you did, didn't you? Poor dear. Why, you're just the sweetest thing I've _ever_ seen! Like a great teddy bear, aren't you, pet?" And Moriarty reached out to pinch John's cheek adoringly, but the doctor slapped the advance away angrily and demanded:

"So what then? Why have you even got me here? If you could have come for Sherlock with or without me there."

Moriarty narrowed his eyes. "Stop thinking of yourself, selfish. This has got nothing whatsoever to do with _you_."

John raised an eyebrow and Moriarty's smile came back.

"No no no, dear. It's all got to do with _Sherlock_, hasn't it? For both of us, I'm afraid …"

John snapped back: "Yes, and if you could have gotten Sherlock even _with_ me at Baker Street, then why-"

Moriarty slapped John hard across the face.

"God, I hate stupid," he complained as he flexed his fingers. "You keep alluding to 'coming for' Sherlock, or 'getting' Sherlock. What are you implying, dear, that I want to kill him? I rather thought we'd already covered that… I don't want Sherlock dead. Not now, not yet."

Rather than ask again, John sat silent, and let the color rise to heat his face where he'd been slapped.

Moriarty smiled. "You think Sherlock's the only one who _experiments_, do you? Silly, silly John. This is _my_ experiment, and you're all the equipment I need. All that's left is to sit back and _observe_."

John frowned, "Observe what?"

"How long it takes to destroy a man … no! a genius …" Moriarty sneered wickedly, "Of course, it's not the genius in him that will prove to be his ruin – I'm counting on the little part that's still human to provide his downfall." Moriarty waited a moment. "Clever, isn't it?"

John stayed silent.

Moriarty became a little irritated. "Oh, don't be that way! You'll be back at Baker Street soon enough, my pet. Just help me to gather a little data in the meantime. It might come in handy, one day, knowing how quickly it's possible to ruin Sherlock."

John stared at the wall across from him, ignoring Mr. Moriarty completely.

"Well, I didn't really expect _you_ to see the genius of it," Moriarty frowned. "Doesn't matter. I've got my own admirers; I suppose I'll let Sherlock keep his. Might have chosen someone more talented though," Moriarty considered. "I've got assassins and terrorists and diplomats… what could he possibly see use for in a _doctor_?"

Although John would not let it show on his face, the comment hurt. Moriarty had the ability to do that to him – make him feel like the criminal and his own dear detective were indeed merely playing a game, one in which he himself played little part. A game only the two of them could understand, leaving John feeling rather dull and ineffectual. And Sherlock did _so_ love games. John sometimes wondered, despite himself, who was indeed more important to Sherlock: his best friend, or his archenemy. The detective needed both to survive …

"Well," Moriarty clapped his hands together in a giddy fashion. "You just sit tight, love. And you needn't worry. It's just an _experiment_, after all. I can't afford to destroy him completely, not right now. I just like to know how to do it, how long it will take, and all those other little trifling details. Besides, watching Sherlock dance might just be my _favorite_ pastime…" Moriarty giggled.

And then he'd left.

John sat with his thoughts all that night. Foolish, indeed. He'd been so, so foolish.

After that, it had been just a waiting game, as Moriarty had said. He was kept quite comfortable. A sweet Spanish woman, Esperanza, was in charge of bringing him his meals twice a day. She also frequently asked if there was anything _else_ she could bring for him – books, DVDs, a newspaper? All these things he had refused. One afternoon she'd even brought him a kitten, insisting that he should have _some_ company, after all. John accepted the poor creature only because he was afraid of what might happen to it should it be brought back to Moriarty… And, as it turned out, the kitten, whom he'd named Smidge, provided some small comfort during the countless hours and hours of waiting. John would watch it pad across his room during the early morning and evening hours, looking for any source of entertainment. It would catch its tiny claws on the hem of his trousers and roll onto its back, playfully asking John to join in the game. During the daylight hours it would sleep, stretching its tiny legs and curling up in the folds of John's comforter. Its small grey eyes sometimes reminded him of a certain detective, when they held John under their steady, calm gaze.

And that was how the weeks were passed – watching Smidge, watching boats, always wondering. Wondering if his absence was _really_ destroying Sherlock, as Mr. Moriarty had thought it would. John had never seen Sherlock come even close to being defeated. John tried to reassure himself that Sherlock was nothing of the sort – that, surely, the detective must be keeping himself busy analyzing the clues and trying to solve the puzzle of his disappearance. Poor, sweet, loyal John never gave up hope that Sherlock was indeed the hero, the one who could always be counted on to prevail. Of course Moriarty's experiment _must_ fail – it had to be soon, now, that his door would open and Sherlock himself would come striding through, brilliant, cocky smile upon his face, to tell John that really, it had been a simple matter to find him once he had gone over the data. _Elementary, Dr. Watson_, he would say, and they would both laugh.

But on the last day of his confinement, it was not Sherlock who came through the door, as he'd hoped. It was Moriarty.

"There now, love," he purred, "Wasn't so hard, was it?"

John, who had been holding Smidge in his lap, gently set the kitten on the carpeted floor and stood. He raised an eyebrow.

"Well, you're free to go," Moriarty said, sounding surprised that John had not guessed the reason for his sudden appearance. "I've already checked you out, love. Just hurry home now, and keep being the _good boy_ I know you are."

John, confused as he was, did not hesitate. He gathered the few possessions he'd retained during his stay in the hotel – the few pairs of trousers and a few jumpers. He packed these into the duffel Moriarty handed him, and took Smidge into his strong hands. He looked towards the criminal, but it seemed he had nothing left to say. Moriarty simply stood, smiling at John the while. The doctor squared his shoulders and stepped past him into the hall. There were other hotel guests going about their business, which seemed strange to John, though of course none of them could have known that he had been held hostage there for the past four weeks in room number – oh, how clever – 221.

John was waiting on the elevator when he turned to take a last look. Moriarty was leaning against the wall, smiling at him.

He blew a kiss and John heard him whisper, "Till next time, my pet."


	8. Chapter 8

_Author's Note: Yes, yes, final chapter. Thank you so much to all of you who have managed to hang with me through the slapping together of this story. My second attempt at Sherlock fiction wasn't quite so all-over-the-place. It was a post-Reichenbach oneshot I'd love some feedback on, if any of you lovely people are willing to oblige. Anyhow, please enjoy the last chapter here, as well as the awkwardness of our boys situation, hehe._

* * *

><p>John walked back to Baker Street that day, full of conflicting emotions. Sherlock had not come, after all. Sherlock, it seemed, had been beaten. But … John couldn't quite make himself believe <em>that<em>. So had he even been trying? Without meaning to, his brain took him back to a conversation with Sherlock. Sitting in the lab, asking about Moriarty's latest bomb-wearing victim, and Sherlock – Sherlock had said: "_Oh she doesn't matter, she's just a hostage. No leads there_."

Oh. Oh, right. Had that been what Sherlock had said when John had gone missing? Had it all just been the game, after all, Sherlock and Moriarty's game, and John himself was just a pawn? Didn't seem fair – okay, so he wasn't quite on the same level as either Sherlock or Moriarty, but really, what would the world be like if _everyone_ had an intellect – and an ego – that gigantic?

John shook his head sadly. He had thought it didn't matter. That Sherlock didn't mind. That Sherlock … loved him anyway?

John stood outside the flat, looking up towards the window. No frantic Sherlock pacing about; no sound of the meditative violin. What in _God's name_ was he doing up there, then?

When John finally pushed open the door, Sherlock sat still for a long moment. Took in the sight of John. No injuries, as he'd expected. No reason to get silly, then. Let John have the first word.

But John just stared at the mess that was once his best friend. The cigarette butts, the sad music, the dishes and dishes of half-eaten food that Mrs. Hudson must have brought him over the weeks. Not to mention all of their belongings strewn about the floor – overturned chairs and emptied dressers.

"Sherlock…" John was waiting for the explanation, for the grand reveal.

"John." Sherlock was waiting for John to reach the boiling point. He _needed_ John to get angry. Only then he could explain. Only then could they get to the part he needed the most.

John, however, seemed to be trying his hardest to keep a poker face. "You're still listening to this record," he said stupidly.

"And you have a cat," Sherlock countered sarcastically, "The world is full of little wonders, isn't it?"

Ah, yes, there it was. That would do it, surely…

But John did _not_ get angry. Sherlock observed his free hand clench for a moment, as if he were heading in that direction, but then … no, John, where are you going? Why did John always surprise him with his absurd reactions? Why couldn't the man just act like a normal person would? Sherlock _knew_ John was angry, had every right to be angry, so why had he just walked away? Sherlock needed John to demand an explanation so that he could … explain.

But John was in his bedroom now. Sherlock followed at a cautious distance.

"John …"

"Go away, Sherlock."

"John, may I-"

John stood and slammed the door in Sherlock's face.

Sherlock knocked politely.

No response.

A second attempt, but a pointless one – only a fool attempts the same experiment twice, hoping for a different result …

"Well," Sherlock said softly to the wood of the door, "Well, I'll just go and tell Mrs. Hudson you're home, then. She'll be-"

Ah, but there it was! John came barreling out of the bedroom, both fists raised and a face so red it almost made Sherlock laugh aloud. "No!" he yelled, "_Damn_ you," he cursed. "I've been gone a month – that's four weeks, Sherlock, that's thirty days. And you've been … lounging on the sofa, playing my records? For a _month_ – did you even _try_ to find me? Did you _once_ get off that bloody sofa? Did you even _care_ that I was gone?..."

Sherlock let the rant run its course. John called him lazy, and heartless, and insane. When finally it looked like he was losing steam, Sherlock sighed.

"Good," he said, "Very good. Now will you please come back to the living room so we can talk?"

John looked like he might start yelling again, but he swallowed the rage and did as he was asked.

When they were seated each in their respective chairs, Sherlock steepled his fingers beneath his chin and watched John for a long moment. Didn't matter that he knew what Moriarty had been playing at the first time he'd found John's diary. Didn't matter that he'd played along, the sooner to get John home. Didn't matter that he'd known no real harm would come to the good doctor. All that mattered was that John was home now – sitting inches away, and breathing, and making those funny little expressions only John knew how to make.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock said.

John pursed his lips. He was going to need a little more than _that_ if he was going to forgive.

"You don't understand, do you?" Sherlock asked.

John looked angrily across the space between them, as if to say: _If I understood, I wouldn't be so furious, would I?_

"John," Sherlock began, trying to calm the doctor with frequent repetition of his name: "John, I knew exactly where you were. The whole time."

"Then _why_-"

"Because that wasn't the game."

"The game, Sherlock?" John asked dangerously.

"Yes, John, the game," Sherlock answered, frustrated. "Moriarty didn't _want_ me to come after you. If he did, he would have left me _something_ to go on. He didn't. He only wanted me to know you were with him – that's why he left your diary in its hiding place."

John went a little pale for a moment. "You found my journal?"

"Of course," Sherlock waved it away.

"And so … that's what told you where I was? But I didn't even-"

"No no no," Sherlock said, "It told me you were with Moriarty. And I _did_ look for you, John, for a few days. But if Moriarty had been _using _you – to get me to come and play, to get information out of me, anything – he would have contacted me. But there was nothing – the phone numbers from which he'd called couldn't be traced, and they weren't a code. Yet they were the only clue. So Moriarty wasn't trying to get me to come out at all, then, was he?"

John creased his eyebrows guiltily.

Sherlock chuckled. "Ah, so he also told _you_ all about the game, did he?"

"He said… he said he was seeing how fast he could … _ruin_ you."

Sherlock looked terribly sad for a moment. Then he nodded. "Indeed."

"And you knew?" John asked incredulously.

"It was the only explanation that fit all the facts," Sherlock said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Both parties sat in silence for a beat or two. Then John looked more sad than angry. Sherlock watched him curiously.

"So you were just playing along, then? This," he motioned towards the mess and the cigarettes, "is all just an act?"

Sherlock Holmes sat still for a moment, his face as unreadable as stone. "No," he admitted eventually, "the game was a bit more … _complex_ than that."

"Complex? Sherlock, I don't follow."

"No," Sherlock muttered. "You wouldn't, would you?"

"Sherlock-" John began angrily.

"No no, I mean you _really_ wouldn't. I was keeping something of a secret from you, John, for the few weeks before you were abducted."

"Secret?" John leaned forward in his chair.

"An experiment," Sherlock sighed, "I was conducting, rather without your knowledge, I'm afraid."

John caught the little notebook that Sherlock tossed him. He opened it and found the two columns of tally-marks Sherlock had been compiling. _Love_ and _Not Love_.

"Moriarty must have found it." Sherlock mused. "After I realized he'd taken you, I looked for it. Couldn't find it, anywhere. Two days later it showed up, right here on the coffee table. With a bow."

John shook his head, "Sherlock … I still don't quite …"

"I gave him the inspiration for his latest little bit of fun."

"Sherlock, you're not making any sense. This," John held Sherlock's pocket notebook, "This doesn't _mean_ anything. It's just rubbish."

Sherlock chuckled morbidly. "Perhaps."

John waited for the explanation, but Sherlock was oddly hesitant to oblige.

Finally: "You, John," Sherlock said, "I was experimenting on _you_. Don't you … understand?"

John stared at Sherlock's notebook for a few seconds more before he understood. When Sherlock recognized the look of sudden insight on the doctor's face he stood up abruptly and snatched back the humiliating little tome.

"Well," he said, tucking the notebook back into his coat. "See, now you know. So there. You're safe, of course, and no harm done."

John sat stupefied for a moment. Games indeed. What awful, intimate, _sick_ games these bloody geniuses liked to play… So Moriarty had stumbled upon a rather personal secret, and used it to play mind games? That was the only point? No gratification other than the satisfaction of royally fucking with somebody? John put his head in his hands. A month of being a bloody hostage, all so Moriarty could feel as if he-

"Rather gave me the conclusion to my own experiment," Sherlock interrupted his thoughts.

John looked up to see his friend's back, standing straight as a rod, looking out the window down into the street. Oh! Of course it _would_ take silly John Watson that long to get past the immediate why's and how's of the whole mess to see the real consequences of what it _all _meant.

"You needn't stay here any longer," Sherlock said sadly, as he turned around to face John, "if I've made you ... _uncomfortable_. But you should know, before you go, that I … _it_ wasn't an act."

John watched Sherlock standing there, hands behind his back, grey eyes looking tired and sad, defeated after all.

"Sherlock, I-"

"No, John, you're right. That was silly. Tell you that you may leave and then tell you I'm a mess without you. Mixed signals. I apologize."

"Sherlock-"

"No, John, please don't worry. Of course I'll be fine. Lived on my own for years – certainly I can do it again. Just …" Sherlock paused a moment, but seemed to think better of it. "Well, anyway, I'll help you pack. Mrs. Hudson will understand."

John laughed and Sherlock's eyebrows creased in confusion and irritation.

"Let me get a bloody word out, will you?" John smiled fondly. "I'm not going anywhere, idiot."

"Oh?"

John kept on smiling because for the first time ever, he seemed to be the one with the much-needed information. Sherlock was the one standing around, looking daft and confused, trying desperately to figure out what was going on. If John had been a vengeful sort of a person, he might have let the detective suffer a while longer. Thankfully…

"Will you come sit down, please?"

Sherlock approached John cautiously, his long legs taking a surprising amount of time to reach their destination. John stood.

"John … I don't seem to understand..."

John seemed both happy and sad all at once, and Sherlock was having a difficult time interpreting his body language.

"I missed you, Sherlock. I missed you very, very much."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Certainly John was trying to tell him something, but it was bloody hard to concentrate with John standing so close, and moving closer. And then … something strange happened in the great detective's brain. Something he didn't think he had ever experienced before. It just … stopped working. The five senses he relied so heavily upon to pass vital information to his brain seemed to have suddenly slowed down. Because all he could hear was the creak of the floorboards as John approached, and all he could smell was John's shampoo-cinnamon-rain scent, and …

And then he was holding on tight to John's shoulders to halt his progress forward, to try and stop the overwhelming flood of stimuli. He held John at arm's length, watching his face carefully. But John moved too quickly, and the sensory overload of a moment ago was nothing compared to the incredible rushing way in which his brain seemed to dissolve completely when John kissed him.

It was almost clumsy, and it was certainly nothing like in the movies. Hardly a kiss at all, really, more of a touch. But John made sure to lead the shocked detective carefully to the sofa so that he might recover. Sat with him, watched him for any sign of a response. But Sherlock was silent and perfectly still, trying desperately to make _that_ experience fit into what he had previously known to be his life. He couldn't, and it didn't. But Sherlock knew that John was watching him anxiously, and so he reached over and took John's hand. Cautiously, delicately, John let his fingers become entangled with his friends.

"I'm glad you're home, John," Sherlock managed eventually.

"Not going anywhere," John smiled.

"Good," Sherlock looked down at his own hand holding John's. "And John? I – I don't quite … Well, I don't know …"

"It's fine, Sherlock. It's all fine. We'll figure it out."

"Yes," Sherlock said, still rather dazed. But he turned his head to look at the doctor then, because even through the haze there was at least _one_ point on which he was very clear. "I love you, John."

John gave Sherlock's hand a little squeeze – what a perfect thing to do at such a moment, Sherlock thought. And John said: "I know. And I love you."

And just as Sherlock was getting the hang of the hand-holding, just as he was beginning to understand that squeezing the doctor's hand at random intervals was a good way to show affection – that it made John smile – John brought their joined hands up to his mouth and kissed Sherlock's long fingers. And the comforting warmth of John's lips sent the detective's mind buzzing for the second time that evening, and Sherlock understood that he had very, very much to learn.

But that was all right. They had the rest of their lives, as well as a delightfully silly Billie Holiday record…

_I say I'll care forever,_

_And I'll care forever,_

_If I have to hold up the sky._

_The difficult I'll do right now,_

_The impossible might take a little while._


End file.
